


Take Me To Church

by mugglerock



Series: Through the Rift [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Broken Castiel, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Grieving Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Castiel, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:30:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9130549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugglerock/pseuds/mugglerock
Summary: The irony was not lost on him that he learned of Dean’s death on a Tuesday.





	

**Author's Note:**

> One more to the series, no idea when I'll finish it, but there is one more. Sorry, Any. <3

_“My lover's got humour_

_She's the giggle at a funeral_

_Knows everybody's disapproval_

_I should've worshipped her sooner..."_

 

The irony was not lost on him that he learned of Dean’s death on a Tuesday. Instead of praying, Jody had called him on his new cellphone. Castiel had felt loss, had felt pain, had felt the truly suffocating strangulation of a grief that has its hands tightly wrapped around your throat; none of that was even slightly comparable to discovering that Dean Winchester had committed suicide the morning following his rejection. How can anything?

 

He’d ignored the prayer that following morning as yet another plea, because he needed time. He needed time to think, to decide, to change his mind. They were always supposed to have _time._

 

As his heart clenched painfully, regret made way for guilt. How was he to know it was goodbye?

 

Before anything else, Castiel called Crowley. Having fallen out with Heaven, his only option was to implore the help of the King of Hell. He was surprised his voice didn’t crack more when he asked the demon to meet him at a crossroads. Again, the irony was not lost on him.

 

“ _If the heavens ever did speak_

_She's the last true mouthpiece_

_Every Sunday's getting more bleak_

_A fresh poison each week...”_

 

Crowley eyed Castiel, eyebrow quirked and head slightly tilted. A calculating gaze, as though trying to determine the legitimacy of his request. After a beat, he finally asked, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

 

He nodded. “Can you help me? I’ll give you–”

 

“What, Castiel? What could a shell of an angel, with a pair of broken wings, possibly have to offer me?”

 

Castiel took a deep breath. He didn’t have much, but he hoped what he could offer would be enough. His sense of self-worth and his life were all he had left. “Whatever you want. My grace, my eternal servitude… my life.”

 

Crowley shook his head. “All for a human who was going to snuff it in the end anyway? You realize how pathetic you are, don’t you?”

 

Of course he did. It didn’t change the fact that the lives of the Winchesters were worth more than his own, that’s how it had always been. He nodded again. “Do we have a deal?”

 

The demon clapped a hand on his shoulder, causing Castiel to tilt his head at him in confusion. Crowley waved his hand as he shook his head. “No deal. I don’t want to imagine what Billie would do if she found out I had a hand in bringing the Winchesters back.” For the first time in the entirety of knowing the demon before him, his eyes appeared softer, kinder. “You’re free, Castiel. Time to move on.”

 

Castiel had lost complete control over himself as his fist made bloody contact with Crowley’s nose. He left to the sounds of annoyed chuckling and his own heart breaking.

 

_“‘We were born sick,’ you heard them say it...”_

 

When he stepped into the bunker, he hadn’t anticipated Mary being there, going through their things. Castiel offered her a small smile and before he could ask if she needed any assistance, the smaller woman approached, eyes wet and eyebrows angled angrily.

 

“What the hell are you doing here?” she spat.

 

“Mary, I…” Castiel should have known better than to come.

 

“What? Are you _sorry,_ Castiel? Are you sorry for being the reason why I’m standing here, going through the belongings of my two dead sons?” Her lip wobbled, tears brimming her red-rimmed lids, threatening to fall.

 

He turned his gaze downward as he whispered, “Yes.”

 

Mary slammed her fists against his chest, over and over, clearly ignoring the pain from his immovable form. Castiel stood there, eyes slammed shut as he accepted his penance. She collapsed into him, wetness streaking her cheeks as she clung to the lapels of his trench coat. Between broken sobs, she was able to breathe out, “You told me… You told me that I would learn to belong here. I don’t belong here and now? Now I’m stuck here, on a plane where not only did I lose the chance to see my children have a childhood; I’ve… I’ve lost my children.”

 

Mary drew back, eyes storming with the sort of grief no one could possibly imagine. “Do you have any idea what it feels like having to be a parent, but not getting to have your children anymore?”

 

Castiel’s lip trembled, unable to stop the lone tear that broke free.

 

“ _My church offers no absolutes_

_She tells me, 'Worship in the bedroom."_

_The only heaven I'll be sent to_

_Is when I'm alone with you...'”_

 

Dean had always been his exception for everything. Everything he did, everything he was, was for Dean Winchester. A fallible human who had taught him what it was to live, what it was to love. To such an extent Castiel felt heart break for the first time in his existence. Heartbreak and selfishness, self-preservation.

 

Moment after wonderful and hauntingly beautiful moment, when he found himself in the man’s embrace, had been better than all of the years he spent in Heaven. Angels do not have their own heavens, they merely were able to visit the heavens of whomever they chose. But in the arms of Dean, Castiel had found his own Heaven; something he never dreamed possible.

 

And then Dean found love, and his once heavenly sanctuary morphed into a mimicry of itself. Heaven became Hell. As Castiel got consumed by the flames of his new torture, even after they were doused, the burns remained. No matter how much Dean begged for his return, he couldn’t allow himself to get burned again. He’d barely survived the first time, a second would surely kill him, and Castiel had finally come to accept that he was a coward.

 

_“I was born sick_

_But I love it_

_Command me to be well_

_Aaay. Amen. Amen. Amen.”_

 

Castiel found himself, sitting alone in a large and cold cathedral, hands folded in his lap as he stared up at the large wooden cross hung at the front of the old church. God was gone, his reason for existing was gone, his purpose was gone.

 

He moved to his knees, hands clasped together in prayer as he addressed the empty building, “Tell me what I should do, please…” Castiel implored, knowing full-well that he was praying on deaf ears.

 

“If you have faith, you will know what is the right path, my son.”

 

Castiel looked up and was met with a kind gaze. An older man, likely in his seventies, adorned in a traditional vestment; black cassock sharply pressed, white collar at his neck. He moved to sit on the bench again. “Faith has gotten me nowhere, Father. I need answers.”

 

“And your answers are there, if you open your heart to Him, if you keep your faith.” The old man’s voice was kind and sincere. As though it were so simple.

 

He shook his head. “My faith was unwavering, for eons. And still He left. He left me broken and when I needed Him most, He left again, without so much a goodbye. My only source of happiness was a man, Father. A kind, amazing human being. A man who made me see things... feel things for the first time in my existence. A man I gave all of myself to and for. And because of my own cowardice, he is now gone forever. How is faith supposed to rectify that?” Castiel couldn’t keep the resentment from his tone. He was bitter, he was broken.

 

The priest moved to sit next to him. “Faith isn’t meant to fix a problem, it is meant to bring you solace when you are at your lowest.”

 

Castiel shook his head and stood to slide past the priest, stopping at the end of the pew before he cast a soft, “That’s not good enough, Father.”

 

_“Take me to church_

_I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies_

_I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife_

_Offer me that deathless death_

_Good God, let me give you my life...”_

 

Castiel assumed he’d be more reticent, more frightened; considering his cowardice. But with nothing left for him, it was surprisingly easy. He had waited until sundown, sneaking into the bunker just in case Mary was still there. He made his way to Dean’s bedroom.

 

Symbolism was something that he found fascinating. Essentially, it was just a series of coincidences aligning in a way that could be read into, but ultimately meant nothing. Many angels were perplexed by such a concept, but Castiel had always found it to be a wondrous example of the utterly beautiful naivety of humanity.

 

Castiel let out a soft exhale in relief at having found Mary had cleaned out a majority of the contents of Dean’s bedroom. Which meant she would likely not return.

 

As he laid himself out along the bed, his heart ached at the memories of his last time in this room. Dean, with the courage given to him by the fermented grain mash, had pleaded with Castiel, begging him to utter the three words that had damned them all from the beginning. And he couldn’t, he just couldn’t bring himself to say a truth that ran deeper than the blood in his veins.

 

Castiel lined up the angel blade over the left side of his chest, eyes closing as he whispered, “I love you, too.” Before slamming the weapon down.


End file.
